Going Wild
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "She's making it work. She is totally making it work and he is doomed." A kind of sequel to "Going Under" and its M-rated epilogue "Underneath." One-shot set during Wild Rover (5 x 18). (I apologize for leaving this marked as a WIP for so long. I had intended to continue, but it's just a one-shot.)


Title: Going Wild

WC: ~3600

Rating: M

Summary: "She's making it work. She is totally making it work and he is _doomed_."A kind of sequel to "Going Under" and its M-rated epilogue "Underneath." A short WIP.

Spoilers: Set during Wild Rover (5 x 18). Everything aired from Season 5 is fair game, but the story is not spoiler heavy.

A/N: You can blame Luke Reichle for this. He put Beckett in that damned hickey sweater again for a supporting-character-focused episode. You don't choose clandestine precinct nookie. It chooses you.

* * *

"It won't work, you know." He sounds confident. Casual. He hopes. That's what he's going for, and he's pulling it off. Absolutely. She's driving, so she totally can't have noticed that little yodel in there on _work, _and he is pulling it off. But the yodel . . . .What the hell is up with that?

"Hmmm?" She checks her blind spot and eases into a gap in the early morning traffic that's hardly big enough for a bike. She makes it work, though.

That's her specialty. Making it work. It's at the top of her agenda for the day. Her diabolical agenda. But he's on to her.

_We're not done here._ He's on his guard.

"I said," he repeats in slow, loud English. Because she's driving, and she's a very responsible driver and almost certainly won't risk their safety and the safety of fellow motorists by reaching over to twist his ear. "It won't work."

There's no yodel this time. He smiles to himself. _Win! _

Beckett gives the driver she more or less cut off a curt wave and the briefest of smiles. The guy hangs back to give her more room, a slightly dazed grin on his face. Castle knows the feeling. Even at a distance—even with 4000 pounds of Detroit steel and fiberglass between you and Kate Beckett—"slightly dazed" is a best case scenario when she's making it work.

She taps the accelerator and just makes the light, stranding the other driver on the wrong side of the intersection. He's still grinning. Castle can see it in the mirror. A forlorn little grin, receding. He knows the feeling.

Beckett checks her mirrors and spares him a look. "What won't work, Castle?"

Now _that _is a confident, casual tone. _That _is the Platonic Ideal of confident, casual tones. He notes the time on his watch, because a new bar has just been set for confident, casual tones. His tone, yodel or not, is neither confident nor casual. In comparison, his tone makes him sounds like teenager who's been caught with his hand up his girlfriend's sweater.

_Shit. _Now he can't stop thinking about getting his hand up her sweater, which was _obviously _her goal in the first place. _Obviously. _That's why she wore it, and he's falling right into her trap. She's making it work in ways he can't even begin to fathom.

"I thought you hated that sweater." He gestures toward her chest. It's a mistake. A colossal mistake on multiple levels.

Because she's zipped all the way up at the moment. A prim, navy funnel-neck with that long, tantalizing, off-center ladder of silver. Not a hint visible of the soft, bright blue cashmere underneath.

She tricked him. She tricked him into bringing up the sweater. Plus, what he meant as a carefree wave in her general direction turned into this grabby hands thing and now she knows he's thinking about it. The sweater and the last time she wore it. She knows he's thinking about it. Hell, with the special appearance by Sir Awkward McGrabby Hands, she probably knows he's thinking about getting his hands up it.

Although that's kind of a gimme if she's wearing a sweater. It's kind of a gimme regardless of what she's wearing or not wearing. But today she's wearing a sweater.

Today, she's not just wearing _a _sweater. She's wearing _the_ sweater. The sweater that—as far as he's concerned—belongs in the relationship equivalent of the Smithsonian. The sweater that he rescued from the floor of her front hall and certain consignment.

The sweater that she must have very carefully extracted from the dry cleaner's bag in his closet. The sweater he had not even told her was there.

He pales as the thought strikes him. As he pictures her venturing into the dark heart of his walk-in closet. Quietly. Clandestinely. In the dead of night. Or the dead of before-8-am when she roams the loft, doing God knows what. _Whatever. _

The point is she is diabolical. The point is this all started before she even asked him . . .

_We're not done here._

"It's just a sweater, Castle," she says. And, yeah, there it is again: Confident and casual. And now she's smirking, too. Eyes on the road, hands at ten and two and she's _smirking. _"_You_ seem to like it."

"It's fine," he responds instantly. Sullenly. Like everything else since he woke up this morning, it's a mistake. Since before he woke up, apparently.

"_Fine?_" Her head swivels toward him like it's on extremely well-lubricated ball bearings. Just for an instant. An instant, but it's more than enough.

Because now he's thinking about lubricant. Pipe-joint lubricant and the Little Scarf That Could, which is _not _hanging in his closet. Which did _not_ go to the dry cleaner, because when he tried to bundle it up with the sweater, she snatched it from him and knotted it around her bed post with an emphatic tug. And now he's thinking about that, too.

And she knows. All of it. Of course she knows.

"Yes. Fine. Nice. Lovely. Fetching." He's babbling. _Dear God,_ he's babbling.

"_Fetching,_" she repeats drily as they pull up in front of the precinct. She flips on her blinker just as an unmarked slides out into the street, freeing up the only spot as far as the eye can see. The _only_ spot. _Of course._ Because she's making it work.

She shifts into park and twists the key in the ignition and he's absolutely fascinated by her wrist, her arm, her shoulder. By the memory of how that sweater feels under his hands. By the play of light and blue on the skin between her collarbones where shadows gather. She's is all zipped up in a damned duffel coat and he's fascinated. It's _ridiculous_.

He's annoyed and breathless and completely put out. His head snaps up and he meets her eye and that's a mistake, too, but there's nothing for it now.

"Fetching," he says, "but it won't work. I won't tell you, because there's nothing to tell. So it won't work."

Her eyebrows flit upward and one corner of her mouth follows. It's not even a smirk. She's not even _bothering_ to smirk.

He lifts his chin defiantly. _It won't work_, he tells himself.

Her hand shoots out. Her thumb sweeps over his lower lip. It's so fast that he doesn't even have time to flinch. He doesn't have time to flinch before it's over and the feeling lingers like a kiss.

She brings her thumb to her own lips and draws it between them. The very tip of her tongue flicks out and he's going to die. She's going to be the death of him and his only consolation is that she's going to have a _ton _of paperwork to do when they find his body in her cruiser.

"Free sample," she says and all of a sudden she's out of the car and he's still sitting there, gaping.

She's making it work. She is totally making it work and he is _doomed. _

* * *

The precinct lobby is humming with activity. Someone's made a big bust. A dozen or so people in cuffs are leaning against the wall, flanked by an array of uniforms and plainclothes cops. Apparently there's a also transfer bus waiting to go out front. It's chaos every time the elevator doors open.

Beckett _tsks,_ turns on her heel, and heads for the stairs.

He knows what she's doing. She can mutter about crowds and smells and the fact that it's only four floors, but he knows what this is.

She might not have orchestrated it—the bust and the bus and the intersection of them. She might not have that kind of power (_might_ not), but the stairs? He knows exactly what this is.

It's a gauntlet. A gauntlet of shadowy corners and doors that bang open and closed with plenty of warning. It's a gauntlet of every wall he's had her up against—every wall _she's_ had _him_ up against—and all he can think about is that convenient little nook between two and three. It's some artifact of something. Dead space on the other side of some nod to building code. It's out of the way and the perfect size for two, provided the two are hell bent on mutual destruction.

_Free sample_.

She's not the only one who can make it work.

She's half a flight ahead of him. She's rounding the corner, almost out of sight. All he can think about is getting his hands on her. Snicking that zipper down one tooth at a time and tracing the _vee_ of her sweater with his mouth. The image is so strong that her name escapes on what little breath he has.

It stops her. It instantly and absolutely stops her, and for a brief moment, he's proud and steady and confident. She's not the only one who's making it work. He takes the stairs two at a time and closes the gap between them and he's just about to smirk. He's about to show her how it's done.

Then she has him by the lapels. Then he's up against the wall and she's up against him. She tastes like chocolate and he'd tell her anything. _Anything_.

There was something he'd meant to do with his hands. Several somethings. Very important somethings. He was about to show her how it's done.

But she seems to have a plan. She has all these things going on. All these things she's doing with leverage and her tongue and his mouth and far be it from him to interfere. He'll just stand here clutching at her forearms like it's a junior high dance. Because he's a giver.

He's a giver and she has a plan. And it's a really good plan. _Really_ good. Four layers of clothes between them—at least, _at least_—but she moves her thigh that way and his hips this way and it's dirtier and more urgent than half a dozen things they've done naked. Her mouth leaves his and someone that is very unlikely to be her makes a pathetic, needy sound that bounces around the stairwell.

She ducks her head and lands teeth first right between his collar bones. A giddy part of his mind wonders how many buttons this is going to cost him, one way or another. She finds her favorite spot—or maybe it's his favorite. That soft little hollow just the other side of his jugular just might be his favorite and her mouth is working over it. One palm travels up his chest and the other creeps under the shirt tails she's managed to pull free without his noticing.

Every hair on his body stands on end and her open mouth slides along the length of his neck. She presses up on her toes and leans into him. Her hips shift and it's anything bit an accident. He grabs them out of self-preservation.

"_Who. Is. Jordan?" _

Each word lands alone. Each one is heavy in his ear, and when she punctuates it with fierce teeth at the corner of his jaw, it's like she's flipped some kind of switch. His fingers tighten around the flare of her hips and he feels her gasp. He feels that sudden inhalation through every inch of her.

He pulls back and she's staring at him with wide eyes and he can't stand it. He can't stand knowing that she will get this out of him. Eventually, she will get it out of him, and it lights up something desperate and untethered inside. She'll get it out of him, but it won't be now. _Not now. Not yet. _He shuts his eyes tight and draws himself up. Makes himself taller than her because she hates it. He knows she hates it.

He shifts. He catches her off guard. He gets lucky. He shoves her back the eight inches of room the little alcove has to spare and then she's the one pressed up against the wall.

"Castle?" She barely has time to get both syllables out before his mouth is on hers, but it's loud. She's more confused than pissed, but there's plenty of both to go around, and it's _loud._ It rings out against the steps above and travels back to them.

"Quiet," he says, and it's low and clipped and not fucking around. She goes still, all taut shoulders and muscles at the ready. There's no space between them, but he moves closer. Closer and he gives the warning again. "Quiet, Kate."

His fingers find the zipper of her coat, and he peels it down in a single motion. It's a quick chatter of metal teeth, and the noise grates on him. It's not what he wanted. It's not what he was imagining three minutes ago, but she won't let it go and she won't get it out of him right now, so this is how it's going to be. This is how it is.

He scrapes the coat back off her shoulders and lets it bunch up against the wall behind her. She twists against him in protest. He can feel it coiling in her. Resistance for its own sake. Because she thinks she'll get it out of him and she's not used to this. Not used to him pushing her the way she pushes him. He feels it all.

She draws in a breath—the grace note leading into her next move—and he stills her. He uses his weight and height and pins her against the cinder block wall and she's not used to it. The fingers of his left hand jerk her sweater aside and his mouth lands.

It's a whisper north of the black lace of her bra. Sharp and unmistakable. He leaves an emphatic mark and she's not expecting it. The breath she'd been counting on becomes something she's not happy with at all and he works with it. The advantage, if it is one, won't last. His other hand comes down hard against the wall, right next to her head and he raises his eyes to hers. Hovers with his lips just grazing the inside of her breast and raises his eyes to hers.

"Quiet, Kate," he says again.

It isn't getting any less dangerous, but she's determined. She's not hearing it. She doesn't want to hear it, but she needs to. She won't get it out of him right now. His hand falls from the wall to the hem of her sweater and he palms the long expanse of her ribs, rucking the material on ahead. His head drops and his teeth close over her nipple through the lace.

Whatever she'd been on the verge of becomes a groan and a wanton arch of her hips into his. He doesn't let up. He twitches her bra cup to the side and sucks greedily at her breast. His left hand curves around her jaw and his thumb presses against her lower lip. Another warning. _Quiet, Kate. _

She's panting and loose limbed against the wall now. Her lips part and her teeth nip at the tip of his thumb. Her tongue just flicks against it and it jolts through him. His mouth peels away from her skin with a wet pop. His eyes dart to her face, suspicious and wary, but her eyelids are heavy and she's moving with him. Surrendering.

An image flicks through his mind. Her beneath him, arms stretched overhead and a figure-eight of blue knotting her wrists together. He groans against the hard jut of her collarbone. His hand leaves her jaw and drags down her body to her waist.

He's thumbing open the button of her pants before either of them really knows what's happening and his mouth is over hers as his fingers make their way underneath. The hard press of the heel of his hand through satin pulls something like a curse from her and he lets a little more of his weight press her into the wall.

"_Quiet,"_ he says into her mouth.

It does something to her. Something to both of them. The tension goes out of her for good. Every bit of resistance left in her unwinds, and she's following. Her hips move with the slide of his hand and there's this sudden _willingness _in every line of her body. His fingers roam lower and, _fuck,_ she is _wet _and he wonders where actually getting her naked in the stairwell ranks on a scale from _bad idea_ to _big mistake._

A door slams open somewhere above them and he means to move back. He means to pull away and shield her and create some kind of diversion while she rearranges her clothes. He means to make sure he doesn't get caught getting her off in the stairwell. He means to brace for whatever punishment she metes out. He really means to do all of those things.

But she doesn't react. Not right away and he can't make his hands leave her body. He can't stop leading her along, and when her eyelids finally flutter open—when she finally registers the pair of voices twining down the stairs—it's nothing like he expects. There's a question there. There's fire and want and a plea and he can answer it. He can absolutely answer it.

His hand slides under the soaking fabric of her panties and then she panics. She resists. She tries to, but his free hand wraps around the back of her neck and he presses her mouth to his. It's harsh and uncompromising. All tongue and teeth. He sinks two fingers inside her and lets his palm just brush over her clit.

"Let go." He drags his mouth in a wet trail from her lips to her ear. He arches his wrist and moves his thumb in wide circles over her and the words are barely there, but he knows she hears them. He feels the shudder run through her—all of her—and he knows she hears them. "Let go, Kate. _Now._"

Her mouth falls open and she buries her face against his neck. Her hands land on his shoulders hard and heavy and her whole body is one long string of tension and then she lets go.

She lets go and his lips move against her ear in a chant that's all but silent. "Shhh. _Quiet._ Let go. Shhhhh."

He feels sharp teeth on his skin and her body pulsing around his fingers and the voices are getting closer and she's still coming and _fuck_. There's nothing for it now. Nothing but this.

"Good, Kate. _Good._ Let go." His fingers twist and curl inside her and he ducks to find her mouth and she's wordless and following. _Following, _and it feels like it's never going to end and if this is how their world implodes, so be it.

The kiss turns slow and heavy and unreal. And then, like a miracle, another door opens a floor or two above. There's a surge of noise. A buzz of voices twines down the stairwell and then it's quiet.

Her fingers are fierce and grasping while she comes down. He slides his own fingers free and curves his hand over her. He eases her back to earth with slow, confident caresses and breaks away at last.

He waits for something. Anger or disdain or _What the fuck were you thinking, Castle? _He waits for some variation on _That did _not _just happen _and _you'll pay. _But she's this combination of soft, languid moans that are more vibration than sound and ferocious, roaming hands, and it's something that he hardly ever sees. Satisfaction and ownership and the plans she has for him. The good kind. He hardly ever sees her naked like this.

It makes him nervous and grateful and wary. He doesn't exactly know what to do with it, so he eases his body away from hers and helps her put herself back together. He smooths her sweater down and the softness under his palms is dangerous. She's dangerous. Always, but especially like this. He hardly ever sees this.

He tugs the coat back over her shoulders. His hands drop to find the zipper, but she catches him by the wrists. His head snaps up and he braces, but she's giving him this searching look.

He remembers. She'll get this out of him and that will be that. She'll get this out of him.

His heart drops and he knows what she's going to say.

She says it. "What was that, Castle?"

It's an opening. It's not. He feels a crowd of stupid, juvenile retorts at the back of his mind, but there's never really any chance that he'll answer like that. Not now.

"Nothing." His eyes drop, and he's ashamed.

She lets his wrists go and he thinks he might as well die here. He's ashamed and he expects her to walk away, but she doesn't. He expects her to be angry, but his eyes travel back up to hers and she's not. She's curious and searching and that's so much worse.

"It's not nothing," she says simply. She leans in and sweeps a lingering kiss over his lips. She thinks about saying something and he sees her change her mind. She says something else instead. "See you upstairs."

Her hand brushes over his jaw. Her thumb traces the outline of his lower lip and she looks at him for a long, unwavering breath before she turns and goes.


End file.
